It stood where three roads met,
an old fashioned, barn-like structure, with rows of many paned,
uncurtained windows; its clapboarded sides innocent of paint, but
bleached by the sun and storm to a soft, gray color, that blended
well with the green fields and meadows which surrounded it.

Around it stood a row of lofty
elms, planted by some brother with anusual sense of beauty, their
drooping branches shading the bare windows from the glare of the
summer sun.

Under the trees were a few
hitching posts, but most of the teams were tied to the pole
fence, that meandered along the south and east sides of the yard,
and whose corners in summer were filled with daisies and
buttercups, and later on by great bunches of golden rod, or
yaller weed, as the farmers called it.

Over the east fence ran a
riotous tangle of blackberry bushes, white as snow with blossoms
in early summer, and loaded with luscious fruit in autumn. Here
the patient horses shivered in the icy blasts of winter, or
stamped and switched away the tormenting flies in summer. Horse
sheds were things unknown in those times.

Over a mossy doorstone, sunk
deep in white clover and green grass, you entered a low porch on
the west end of the house, and passed through narrow, double
doors to the interior of the old building. Here were rows of wide
seated, high backed pews, above whose tops the heads of the
children barely showed when they stood on the floor. From the
doors, on each side, extended a wide pew which was always
regarded by our childish minds as the seat of the
scornful spoken of in the psalm. This was the usual seat of
the toughs of the neighborhood, and many and varied were the
carvings rudely executed in the wide pine board that formed the
front of the pew. Among the rest were cows with wide spreading
horns, and ships under full sail, familiar objects to the
occupants of the pew.

Against the north and south
walls were the wall pews, raised a step above the floor and
separated from the body pews by narrow aisles, meeting at right
angles a broader one which crossed before the pulpit. Here were
the wing pews, where sat the Parsons folks, and
some of the deacons families, as far removed from that
wicked back seat as possible.

Around three sides of the
building was a deep gallery, in the middle of which, facing the
pulpit, was the Singing Seat, and on either side more
pews. In the east end, between two windows, was the pulpit,
reached by a steep flight of narrow stairs, and directly above it
hung the sounding board, shaped like an old fashioned tea tray,
and suspended, as we used to believe, in some miraculous manner
above the preachers head. Afterward, when we discovered it
was held up by a hook, we used to wonder what would happen if
that hook should break in sermon time.

Just in front of the doors was
the great box stove, red with rust in summer, and glowing with
fervent heat in winter. From it, rusty pipes zig-zagged across
the house to the chimney, upheld by wires that sprawled, like
huge spiders, over the ceiling.

At the evening services, light
was furnished by tallow candles, brought by the worshipers and
stuck in queer tin candle sticks, hung on the walls, and on the
great wooden posts which supported the gallery. From the corners
of the pulpit sprang gracefully curving wires ending in wonderful
tin lilies whose cups held each a candle. Where are those lilies
now? Probably long ago thrown away as useless rubbish.

Long before the hour for
service the people would begin to assemble, and gather in little
groups, to talk over the news. As there were not many papers in
those days, and about the only one taken by the old farmers was
the Christian Messenger, the news in which had become history
before reaching them, the time before meeting was a golden
opportunity to gossip in a friendly way. Outdoors, the older men
in their homespun and homemade suits, swapped, not horses (as
that was a sin to be visited with stern reprimand from the Elder,
and if they ever did they exchanged animals for a slight
consideration  none but hardened characters
swapped horses), but they compared notes as to the
state of the weather, or the crops and like matters of interest;
while the younger men leaned on the fence, to watch the girls go
into the old church. Inside, the old ladies, each with a sprig of
southernwood or caraway seed, and a flower or two in her hand,
talked over the new bonnets and babies, and told how many pounds
of butter old Brindle made last week, till the minister was seen
crossing the hollow. Then they took their seats and waited, while
the Pastor, a small, spare man, but with enough dignity for one
twice his size, walked slowly up the aisle, pausing in front of
the little hinged communion table in the deacon seat to deposit,
hat, gloves, and muffler, before climbing the pulpit stairs. He
was a little man, with thin hair brushed carefully from the back
of his neck to a point in the middle of his forehead, and an
anxious expression of countenance But, though small, he was a
great expounder of scripture, strong in the doctrines of
regeneration, predestination and election, and a mighty destroyer
and downpuller of the strongholds of sin and Satan. When he
preached on such themes as dancing, card playing, and the final
destruction of the wicked, sinners grew pale, and the back seat
trembled in its shoes.

Slowly and solemnly, the
deacons took their places in the deacon seat, each, as he passed
it, carefully standing his beaver hat on the anxious bench, just
in front of the front pew.

Good old Deacon Jones, with his
snow white hair, Roman nose, broad Scotch brogue, and decided
limp, one leg having been left shorter then the other by an
illness in his youthful days! Of him it might be truly said
he was known by hi walk and conversation. Deacon
Jenkins, from the mountain, a tall thin man, who wore a high
white beaver, and an immense black satin stock, and with a shirt
collar so high that the irreverent black seat affirmed that
he stood on a chair to spit over it; Brother Smith, whose
shoulders were bowed by hard work, who sung through his nose, and
who was so steeped in tobacco that we always wondered what the
angels would do with him when he got to heaven; and so on through
the list of worthy men, seven or eight of them, grave and solemn
men they were, who took life seriously, and regarded it as a sin
to laugh on the Sabbath day.

One after another the farmers
file in, each bringing his long whalebone whip, if he has one, in
his hand. Taking his seat, he stands the whip in the corner of
his pew, and wipes his face with a huge red handkerchief.

Now the pastor rises in the
pulpit, and blowing his nose like a trumpet, gives out a hymn
from Dr. Watts collection  eight or ten stanzas
in length. The choir in the gallery stand up, all the rest of the
congregation remaining seated, while the chorister, a short,
stout man, struck his tuning fork on his knee, held it to his
ear, and singing, Do, Sol, Mi, Do, started the hymn to the tune
of Antioch, New Jerusalem, or Blow ye the Trumpet, Blow, New
Jerusalem being a favorite and usually sung at least once every
Sunday. Away they go, the soprano carrying the air,
the counter taking the top line, and the bass growling and
rumbling along after them, but generally managing to catch up on
the last line, and all come out together at the end of the verse.
In the absence of the regular chorister, Brother Steadman used to
set the tunes with a natural tremolo in his voice that would make
a modern soloist turn green with envy, but with an ear so true
that he seldom failed to strike the exact pitch without the aid
of a tuning fork. To hear him sing, Our daays aare aas thee
graas, or liike aa moorning flowwer, to his favorite tune
Boylston, was something long to be remembered. Once a daring
innovator brought a violin into the choir. He played through the
first tune, but promptly subsided, when the pastor announced that
the choir will now sing and fiddle the 63rd hymn, long
metre.

Occasionally the pastor would
invite all to sing, but congregational singing was not encouraged
by the choir. On one such occasion, when his request had not been
responded to, he quoted let those refuse to sing, who never knew
our God, but children of the Heavenly King must sound his praise
abroad. Needless to say that all joined in singing the next hymn.
Some few musical souls outside the singing seat were always ready
to help. Sister Content Brown, who sat by a window, and who had a
high pitched squawky voice, and sang with a time and tune
peculiarly her own, always came out half a line behind the rest,
to the great edification of the back seat. Old Brother Mills,
from the Bay Shore, fairly revelled in St. Martins, and
whenever it was sung stepped out into the aisle, carefully
adjusted his spectacles on his nose, and then shutting both eyes,
sang with might and main, regardless of choir or chorister. And
there were others, besides.

After the hymn came the prayer,
during which we all stood with our backs to the pulpit, while the
pastor led his hearers over all the habitable globe, to the
uttermost ends of the earth, remembered the heathen who dwelt in
the habitations of cruelty; prayed for our Queen and all the
Royal family, collectively and individually, and for those in
authority under them and over us; our institutions of learning,
our brethren who are soon to meet, in an associated capacity,
(referring to a yearly business meeting of the churches); and
after further instructing the Lord as to his duties, both
politically and socially, closed, while the deacons responded,
Amen ! and the congregation thankfully sat down.

A long chapter from the Bible
came next, the Pastor explaining obscure passages as he went
along. After another hymn the good man takes his text, to which
we children pay strict attention, well knowing that we shall be
called upon to repeat it after dinner. Then, while the sermon
proceeds, learned and logical, from firstly to seventhly and
lastly, my brethren, we look about for something to while away
the weary hours.

We count the panes of glass in
each window and find there are twenty; then counting the windows,
try to reckon how many there in the whole building, but soon tire
of this, as every new computation differs from the preceding one.

Presently our eyes are drawn to
watch Mart, who sat in the back sat, and who went through the
most aweful grimaces every few minutes. The poor fellow could not
help it, being a sufferer from some nervous affection, but why he
did it was beyond us children then.

One after another, the tired
farmers, worn by their long weeks work in the hot fields,
and soothed by the monotonous tones of the speaker, would begin
to nod, and after making desperate efforts to keep awake, would
drop off to sleep, to be aroused by a punch in the ribs from the
elbow of a scandalized wife. Waking with a start they would
straighten up and look about with a bewildered air, only to
repeat the performance a minute later. At last, when the limit of
our endurance is about reached, the welcome Amen is heard, and
the pastor, leaning over the front of his pulpit, calls on
Brother Jones to lead us in prayer. Slowly rising to
his feet, and loudly clearing his throat, the good brother, with
a fluency gained only by long practice, would present his
petitions at the Throne of Grace, not forgetting to implore the
lord to pardon and forgive all our pasture fences
 at least that was how we understood it. A very appropriate
petition it seemed to us, too. When he closed, two other deacons,
each taking a tall hat, passed up and down the aisles, taking up
the collection. We always wondered if any change ever caught in
the lining when the hats were emptied.

The appointments for the
following week were next in order. Divine Service will be held in
this house next Lords day morning, D. V.; a prayer meeting
will be held at Sister Greens, beginning at early candle
light; other in other parts of the wide field; and a Bible class
will meet at the parsonage next Friday evening to pursue the
study of Gods word. Then the pastor announced that
marriage is intended between Susan Smith and Jonathan Brown, two
estimable young people, at which the young folks smile and
the old ladies try to look as if they had known it all along.

The benediction pronounced, the
congregation passed reverently out, lingering about the door to
shake the hand of their beloved pastor to whom they brought their
joys and sorrows, sure of hearty sympathy and wise counsel. A
shrewd business man, he drew up their wills, and wrote the deeds
to their farms, managing their temperal as well as their
spiritual affairs for them. A man loved and revered alike by
saints and sinners, and well known and respected throughout the
country.

The trees still wave as in the
days summer winds sigh through their drooping branches as they
bend mournfully over the desolate site, but the old meeting house
is gone. Torn down by sacrilegious hands for the sake of the fine
lumber of which its pews were built. Was there no public spirit
in the land that such a thing could be permitted  That the
venerable building, hallowed by so many precious memories, should
be so ruthlessly destroyed for a few paltry dollars?

Across the hollow, in the old
burying ground, where the wild roses blossom, and the birds sing
all day long, on the white stones so thickly set, you may read
the names and ages of pastor and people. But they themselves have
joined the great company that no man can number, and are tuning
harps of gold in the New Jerusalem of which they sang so
exultantly.

Some of their descendants still
live in the lovely valley, while others have wandered far to
distant lands. As for me, could I sit once more in that old pew,
and see once more the dear faces on which I used to look, earth
for me could hold nothing further.